LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SANTA   CRUZ 


SANTA     CRUZ 


Prof.  Benjamin  H.  Lehman 


SANTA     CRUZ 


POEMS.  i6mo,  $1.00;  illuminated  parchment 
paper,  $1.00. 

THE  HERMITAGE,  and  Later  Poems.  With 
Portrait.  i6mo,  $1.00;  illuminated  parchment 
paper,  $1.00. 

HERMIONE,  and  Other  Poems.     i6mo,  $1.00. 

THE  PROSE  OF  EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL. 
With  an  Introduction  comprising  some  Familiar 
Letters.  i6mo,  $1.25. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  COMPANY, 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


POEMS 


By 
EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL 


BOSTON  AKD   NEW  YORK 

Hougbton,  Mifflin  and  Company 


Copyright,  1887, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


"PS 


NOTE. 

IN  presenting  this  volume  of  poems  to 
the  public  it  is  proper  to  state  briefly  the 
circumstances  under  which  it  has  been 
gathered.  A  year  or  two  ago  the  pub- 
lishers, who  had  noted  with  interest  the 
poems  which  Mr.  Sill  had  been  contrib- 
uting to  the  Atlantic  and  other  periodi- 
cals, both  under  his  own  name  and  under 
pseudonyms,  invited  him  to  make  a  col- 
lection of  his  recent  poems  for  publica- 
tion in  a  volume.  He  was  in  no  haste 
to  do  this.  He  was  doubtless  conscious 
that  his  power  was  a  growing  one,  as  in- 
deed the  quick  succession  of  poems  indi- 
cated. At  any  rate  he  had  that  fine  sense 
of  poetic  art  which  forbade  him  to  be 
complacent  over  his  own  productions, 


to  Note 

and  he  preferred  to  send  fresh  poems 
out,  month  by  month,  waiting  for  the  day 
when  a  volume  should  be  inevitable. 

In  the  midst  of  his  mental  activity, 
when  he  was  acquiring  great  flexibility  in 
the  use  of  a  variety  of  literary  forms,  he 
died.  After  his  death,  so  freely,  even 
carelessly,  had  he  let  his  verses  go,  that 
month  by  month  new  poems  under  his 
familiar  signatures  appeared  in  the  mag- 
azines, as  if  he  went  out  of  the  sight  of 
men,  singing  on  his  way.  It  seemed  then 
only  just  to  his  memory,  and  due  to  lit- 
erature, which  he  loved  with  a  generous 
mind,  that  the  present  volume  should  be 
gathered.  In  making  choice  of  its  con- 
tents it  has  been  thought  best  to  take  but 
five  pieces  from  The  Hermitage  and  other 
Poems,  the  only  volume  published  by  him, 
and  containing  his  poetic  work  previous 
to  1868,  the  date  of  its  appearance  from 
the  house  of  Leypoldt  &  Holt.  When  Mr. 
Sill  bade  good-by  to  his  friends  in  Cali- 


Note  v 

fornia  in  1883,  he  left  with  them  a  small, 
privately  printed  volume,  bearing  the  title 
The  Venus  of  Milo  and  other  Poems.  A 
large  portion  of  its  contents  is  included 
in  the  present  work,  which  finally  con- 
tains a  selection  from  the  uncollected 
poems  of  the  last  four  or  five  years. 

It  will  be  seen  by  this  statement  that 
no  attempt  has  been  made  to  publish  the 
body  of  Mr.  Sill's  poetic  work,  nor  even 
to  indicate  the  quality  of  his  poetry  at 
different  periods  of  his  life.  Regard  has 
been  had  to  what  may  properly  be  con- 
sidered as  his  own  judgment  in  such  a 
case,  and  while  a  few  illustrations  are 
given  of  the  spirit  which  pervaded  his  ear- 
lier verse  and  never  essentially  changed, 
the  main  contents  are  drawn  from  the 
poetry  which  represents  his  maturity  and 
the  period  when  his  technical  skill  was 
most  highly  developed.  His  own  deep 
respect  for  his  art  forbids  that  his  friends 
should  be  governed  by  other  considera- 


vi  Note 

tions  than  a  love  and  admiration  for  fine 
poetry. 

Since  this  volume  therefore  is  addressed 
not  primarily  to  the  friends  of  Mr.  Sill, 
who  would  eagerly  preserve  all  that  he 
wrote,  but  to  the  larger  public  that  can 
know  his  personality  only  as  it  is  hinted 
through  his  verse,  a  single  word  may  be 
said  regarding  his  career.  He  was  born 
in  Windsor,  Connecticut,  in  1841,  and 
graduated  at  Yale  College  with  the  class 
of  1 86 1.  He  went  to  California  not  long 
after  graduation,  and  at  first  engaged  in 
business,  but  in  1867  returned  east  with 
the  expectation  of  entering  the  minis- 
try, and  studied  for  a  few  months  at  the 
Divinity  School  of  Harvard  University. 
He  gave  up  the  purpose,  however,  mar- 
ried, and  occupied  himself  with  literary 
work,  translating  Rau's  Mozart,  holding 
an  editorial  position  on  the  New  York 
Evening  Mail,  and  bringing  out  his  vol 
ume  of  poems. 


Note  mi 

His  peculiar  power  in  stimulating  the 
minds  of  others  drew  him  into  the  work 
of  teaching,  and  he  became  principal  of 
an  academy  in  Ohio.  His  California  life, 
however,  had  given  him  a  strong  attach- 
ment to  the  Pacific  coast  and  a  sense  that 
his  health  would  be  better  there,  and  ac- 
cordingly, on  receiving  an  invitation  to  a 
position  in  the  Oakland  High  School,  he 
removed  to  California  in  1871,  remaining 
there  till  1883.  In  1874  he  accepted  the 
chair  of  English  Literature  in  the  Univer- 
sity of  California,  and  identified  himself 
closely  with  the  literary  life  which  found 
its  expression  in  magazines  and  social 
organization. 

Upon  his  return  to  the  east  with  the 
intention  of  devoting  himself  more  exclu- 
sively to  literary  work,  he  began  that 
abundant  production  which  has  been 
hinted  at,  and  which,  anonymous  for  the 
most  part,  was  rapidly  giving  him  facility 
of  execution  and  drawing  attention  to 


•oiii  Note 

the  versatility,  the  insight,  the  sympa- 
thetic power,  the  inspiring  force  which 
had  always  marked  his  teaching  and  bade 
fair  to  bring  a  large  and  appreciative 
audience  about  him.  He  lived  remote 
from  the  press  of  active  life,  always  close 
to  the  centre  of  current  intellectual  and 
spiritual  movements,  in  the  village  of 
Cuyahoga  Falls,  Ohio,  where  he  died 
after  a  brief  illness,  February  27,  1887. 

NOVEMBER,  1887. 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

The  Venus  of  Milo i 

Field  Notes I2 

Morning 25 

Life 27 

Faith 28 

Solitude 3° 

Retrospect 31 

Christmas  in  California 33 

Among  the  Redwoods 38 

Opportunity 43 

Home 45 

Reverie 47 

Five  Lives 49 

Tranquillity 54 

Dare  You? 56 

The  Invisible 5$ 

Peace 6l 

The  Fool's  Prayer 62 

The  Deserter 65 

The  Reformer 66 

Desire  of  Sleep & 


x  Contents 

Her  Explanation 70 

Eve's  Daughter 72 

Blindfold     .     .     .     . 74 

Recall 76 

Strange 78 

Wiegenlied 80 

An  Ancient  Error 82 

To  a  Face  at  a  Concert 84 

Two  Views  of  it 86 

The  Links  of  Chance 88 

"  Words,  Words,  Words  " 90 

The  Thrush 93 

Carpe  Diem 95 

Service 96 

The  Book  of  Hours 98 

The  Wonderful  Thought 100 

Nature  and  her  Child 104 

The  Foster-Mother 106 

Truth  at  Last 107 

"  Quern  Metui  Moritura  ?" 109 

A  Morning  Thought ill 


POEMS 

BY 

EDWARD    ROWLAND    SILL 

THE  VENUS   OF  MILO. 

HERE  fell  a  vision  to  Praxiteles : 
Watching  thro'  drowsy  lids  the 

loitering  seas 
That  lay  caressing  with  white  arms  of  foam 
The  sleeping  marge  of  his  Ionian  home, 
He  saw  great  Aphrodite  standing  near, 
Knew  her,  at  last,  the  Beautiful  he  had 

sought 

With  life-long  passion,  and  in  love  and  fear 
Into  unsullied  stone  the  vision  wrought. 

Far  other  was  the  form  that  Cnidos  gave 
To  senile  Rome,  no  longer  free  or  brave,  — 


2  The  Venus  of  Milo 

The  Medicean,  naked  like  a  slave. 

The  Cnidians  built  her  shrine 

Of  creamy  ivory  fine ; 

Most  costly  was  the  floor 

Of  scented  cedar,  and  from  door 

Was  looped  to  carven  door 

Rich  stuff  of  Tyrian  purple,  in  whose  shade 

Her  glistening  shoulders  and  round  limbs 

outshone, 

Milk-white  as  lilies  in  a  summer  moon. 
Here   honey-hearted   Greece   to   worship 

came, 

And  on  her  altar  leaped  a  turbid  flame, 
The  quickened  blood  ran  dancing  to  its 

doom, 
And  lip  sought  trembling  lip  in  that  rich 

gloom. 

But  the  island  people  of  Cos,  by  the 

salt  main 

From  Persia's  touch  kept  clean, 
Chose  for  their  purer  shrine  amid  the  seas 
That  grander  vision  of  Praxiteles. 


The  Venus  of  Milo  3 

Long  ages  after,  sunken  in  the  ground 
Of  sea-girt  Melos,  wondering   shepherds 

found 
The  marred  and  dinted  copy  which  men 

name 
Venus  of  Milo,  saved  to  endless  fame. 

Before  the  broken  marble,  on  a  day, 
There  came  a  worshiper  :  a  slanted  ray 
Struck  in  across  the  dimness  of  her  shrine 
And  touched  her  face  as  to  a  smile  divine ; 
For  it  was  like  the  worship  of  a  Greek 
At    her   old    altar.     Thus   I    heard  him 
speak :  — 

Men  call  thee  Love  :  is  there  no  holier 

name 
Than  hers,  the  foam-born,  laughter-loving 

dame  ? 

Nay,  for  there  is  than  love  no  holier  name  : 
All  words  that  pass  the  lips  of  mortal  men 
With  inner  and  with  outer  meaning  shine  ; 
An  outer  gleam  that  meets  the  common 

ken, 


4  The  Venus  of  Milo 

An  inner  light  that  but  the  few  divine. 
Thou  art  the  love  celestial,  seeking  still 
The  soul  beneath  the  form ;  the  serene 

will; 
The  wisdom,   of  whose  deeps  the  sages 

dream ; 

The  unseen  beauty  that  doth  faintly  gleam 
In  stars,  and  flowers,  and  waters  where 

they  roll ; 
The  unheard  music  whose  faint   echoes 

even 

Make  whosoever  hears  a  homesick  soul 
Thereafter,  till  he  follow  it  to  heaven. 

Larger  than   mortal  woman  I  see  thee 

stand, 

With  beautiful  head  bent  forward  steadily, 
As  if  those  earnest  eyes  could  see 
Some  glorious  thing  far  off,  to  which  thy 

hand 

Invisibly  stretched  onward  seems  to  be. 
From  thy  white  forehead's  breadth  of  calm, 

the  hair 


The  Venus  of  Milo  3 

Sweeps  lightly,  as  a  cloud  in  windless  air. 
Placid  thy  brows,  as  that  still  line  at 

dawn 
Where  the   dim  hills   along  the  sky  are 

drawn, 
When  the  last  stars  are  drowned  in  deeps 

afar. 

Thy  quiet  mouth  —  I  know  not  if  it  smile, 
Or  if  in  some  wise  pity  thou  wilt  weep,  — 
Little  as  one  may  tell,  some  summer  morn, 
Whether  the  dreamy  brightness  is  most 

glad, 

Or  wonderfully  sad,  — 
So  bright,  so  still  thy  lips  serenely  sleep  ; 
So  fixedly  thine  earnest  eyes  the  while, 
As  clear  and  steady  as  the  morning  star, 
Their  gaze  upon  that  coming  glory  keep. 

Thy  garment's  fallen  folds 
Leave  beautiful  the  fair,  round  breast 
In  sacred  loveliness  ;  the  bosom  deep 
Where  happy  babe  might  sleep  ; 
The  ample  waist  no  narrowing  girdle  holds, 


6  The  Venus  of  Milo 

Where  daughters  slim  might  come  to  cling 

and  rest, 
Like  tendriled  vines  against  the  plane-tree 

pressed. 
Around  thy  firm,  large  limbs  and  steady 

feet 
The  robes  slope  downward,  as  the  folded 

hills 
Slope  round  the  mountain's  knees,  when 

shadow  fills 

The  hollow  canons,  and  the  wind  is  sweet 
From  russet  oat-fields  and   the  ripening 

wheat. 

From  our  low  world  no  gods  have  taken 

wing; 
Even  now  upon  our  hills  the  twain  are 

wandering ; 

The  Medicean's  sly  and  servile  grace, 
And  the  immortal  beauty  of  thy  face. 
One  is  the  spirit  of  all  short-lived  love 
And  outward,  earthly  loveliness  : 
The  tremulous  rosy  morn  is  her  mouth's 

smile, 


The  Venus  of  Milo  7 

The  sky  her  laughing  azure  eyes  above ; 

And,  waiting  for  caress, 

Lie  bare  the  soft  hill-slopes,  the  while 

Her  thrilling  voice  is  heard 

In  song  of  wind  and  wave,  and  every  flit- 
ting bird. 

Not  plainly,  never  quite  herself  she  shows  j 

Just  a  swift  glance  of  her  illumined  smile 

Along  the  landscape  goes  ; 

Just  a  soft  hint  of  singing,  to  beguile 

A  man  from  all  his  toil ; 

Some  vanished  gleam  of  beckoning  arm, 
to  spoil 

A  morning's  task  with  longing  wild  and 
vain. 

Then  if  across  the  parching  plain 

He  seek  her,  she  with  passion  burns 

His  heart  to  fever,  and  he  hears 

The  west  wind's  mocking  laughter  when 
he  turns, 

Shivering  in  mist  of  ocean's  sullen  tears. 

It  is  the  Medicean  :  well  I  know 

The  arts  her  ancient  subtlety  will  show ; 


8  The  Venus  of  Milo 

The  stubble-field  she  turns  to  ruddy  gold  ; 

The  empty  distance  she  will  fold 

In  purple  gauze  :  the  warm  glow  she  has 

kissed 

Along  the  chilling  mist : 
Cheating  and  cheated  love  that  grows  to 

hate 
And  ever  deeper  loathing,  soon  or  late. 

Thou,  too,  O  fairer  spirit,  walkest  here 
Upon  the  lifted  hills  : 
Wherever   that   still   thought   within   the 

breast 

The  inner  beauty  of  the  world  hath  moved ; 
In  starlight  that  the  dome  of  evening  fills  ; 
On  endless  waters  rounding  to  the  west : 
For  them  who  thro'  that  beauty's  veil  have 

loved 

The  soul  of  all  things  beautiful  the  best. 
For  lying  broad  awake,  long  ere  the  dawn, 
Staring  against  the   dark,   the  blank  of 

space 
Opens  immeasurably,  and  thy  face 


The  Venus  of  Milo  9 

Wavers  and  glimmers  there  and  is  with- 
drawn. 
And   many  days,  when   all  one's  work  is 

vain, 
And  life  goes  stretching  on,  a  waste  gray 

plain, 
With   even  the  short  mirage  of  morning 

gone, 

No  cool  breath  anywhere,  no  shadow  nigh 
Where  a  weary  man  might  lay  him  down 

and  die, 

Lo  !  thou  art  there  before  me  suddenly, 
With  shade  as  if  a  summer  cloud  did  pass, 
And  spray  of  fountains  whispering  to  the 

grass. 
Oh,  save  me  from  the  haste  and  noise  and 

heat 

That  spoil  life's  music  sweet : 
And  from  that  lesser  Aphrodite  there  — 
Even  now  she  stands 
Close  as  I  turn,  and,  O  my  soul,  how  fair  ! 
Nay,  I  will  heed  not  thy  white  beckoning 

hands, 


10  The  Venus  of  Milo 

Nor  thy  soft  lips  like  the  curled  inner  leaf 
In  a  rosebud's  breast,  kissed  languid  by 

the  sun, 
Nor  eyes  like  liquid  gleams  where  waters 

run. 

Yea,  thou  art  beautiful  as  morn  ; 
And  even  as  I  draw  nigh 
To  scoff,  I  own  the  loveliness  I  scorn. 
Farewell,  for  thou  hast  lost  me  :  keep  thy 

train 

Of  worshipers  ;  me  thou  dost  lure  in  vain  : 
The  inner  passion,  pure  as  very  fire, 
Burns  to  light  ash  the  earthlier  desire. 

O  greater  Aphrodite,  unto  thee 
Let   me   not   say  farewell.     What  would 

Earth  be 

Without  thy  presence?     Surely  unto  me 
A  life-long  weariness,  a  dull,  bad  dream. 
Abide  with  me,  and  let  thy  calm  brows 

beam 

Fresh  hope  upon  me  every  amber  dawn, 
New  peace  when  evening's  violet  veil  is 

drawn. 


The  Venus  of  Milo  1 1 

Then,  tho'  I  see  along  the  glooming  plain 

The  Medicean's  waving  hand  again, 

And  white  feet  glimmering  in  the  harvest- 
field, 

I  shall  not  turn,  nor  yield  ; 

But  as  heaven  deepens,  and  the  Cross  and 
Lyre 

Lift  up  their  stars  beneath  the  Northern 
Crown, 

Unto  the  yearning  of  the  world's  desire 

I  shall  be  'ware  of  answer  coming  down  ; 

And  something,  when  my  heart  the  dark- 
ness stills, 

Shall  tell  me,  without  sound  or  any  sight, 

That  other  footsteps  are  upon  the  hills  ; 

Till  the  dim  earth  is  luminous  with  the 
light 

Of  the  white  dawn,  from  some  far-hidden 
shore, 

That  shines  upon  thy  forehead  evermore. 


FIELD  NOTES* 


Y  the  wild  fence-row,  all  grown  up 
With  tall  oats,  and  the  buttercup, 
And  the  seeded  grass,  and  blue 
flax-flower, 

I  fling  myself  in  a  nest  of  green, 
Walled  about  and  all  unseen, 
And  lose  myself  in  the  quiet  hour. 
Now  and  then  from  the  orchard-tree 
To  the  sweet  clover  at  my  knee 
Hums  the  crescendo  of  a  bee, 
Making  the  silence  seem  more  still ; 
Overhead  on  a  maple  prong 
The  least  of  birds,  a  jeweled  sprite, 

*  Written  for  the  graduating  class  of  1882,  at  Smith  Col 
lege,  Northampton,  Mass.  It  is  a  pleasant  custom  at 
that  college  for  each  class  to  send  abroad  and  invite  some 
one  to  celebrate  its  entrance  into  the  greater  world. 


Field  Notes  13 

With  burnished  throat  and  needle  bill, 
Wags  his  head  in  the  golden  light, 
Till  it  flashes,  and  dulls,  and  flashes  bright, 
Cheeping  his  microscopic  song. 

n. 

Far  up  the  hill-farm,  where  the  breeze 

Dips  its  wing  in  the  billowy  grain, 

Waves  go  chasing  from  the  plain 

On  softly  undulating  seas  ; 

Now  near  my  nest  they  swerve  and  turn, 

And  now  go  wandering  without  aim  ; 

Or  yonder,  where  the  poppies  burn, 

Race  up  the  slope  in  harmless  flame. 

Sometimes  the  bold  wind  sways  my  walls, 

My  four  green  walls  of  the  grass  and  oats, 

But  never  a  slender  column  falls, 

And  the  blue  sky-roof  above  them  floats. 

Cool  in  the  glowing  sun  I  feel 

On  wrist  and  cheek  the  sea-breeze  steal 

From  the  wholesome  ocean  brine. 

The  air  is  full  of  the  whispering  pine, 

Surf-sound  of  an  aerial  sea ; 


14  Field  Notes 

And  the  light  clashing,  near  and  far, 
As  of  mimic  shield  and  scimitar, 
Of  the  slim  Australian  tree. 

in. 

So  all  that  azure  day 
In  the  lap  of  the  green  world  I  lay ; 
And  drinking  of  the  sunshine's  flood, 
Like  Sigurd  when  the  dragon's  blood 
Made  the  bird-songs  understood, 
Inward  or  outward  I  could  hear 
A  murmuring  of  music  near ; 
And  this  is  what  it  seemed  to  say :  — 

IV. 

Old  earth,  how  beautiful  thou  art ! 

Though  restless  fancy  wander  wide 

A.nd   sigh   in   dreams   for   spheres   more 

blest, 

Save  for  some  trouble,  half-confessed, 
Some  least  misgiving,  all  my  heart 
With  such  a  world  were  satisfied. 
Had  every  day  such  skies  of  blue, 


Field  Notes  15 

Were  men  all  wise,  and  women  true, 
Might  youth  as  calm  as  manhood  be, 
And  might  calm  manhood  keep  its  lore 
And  still  be  young  —  and  one  thing  more, 
Old  earth  were  fair  enough  for  me. 

Ah,  sturdy  world,  old  patient  world ! 
Thou  hast  seen  many  times  and  men ; 
Heard  jibes  and  curses  at  thee  hurled 
From  cynic  lip  and  peevish  pen. 
But  give  the  mother  once  her  due : 
Were  women  wise,  and  men  all  true  — 
And  one  thing  more  that  may  not  be, 
Old  earth  were  fair  enough  for  me. 

v. 

If  only  we  were  worthier  found 

Of  the  stout  ball  that  bears  us  round  ! 

New  wants,    new  ways,   pert    plans    of 

change, 

New  answers  to  old  questions  strange ; 
But  to  the  older  questions  still 
No  new  replies  have  come,  or  will. 


1 6  Field  Notes 

New  speed  to  buzz  abroad  and  see 

Cities  where  one  needs  not  to  be ; 

But  no  new  way  to  dwell  at  home, 

Or  there  to  make  great  friendships  come ; 

No  novel  way  to  seek  or  find 

True  hearts  and  the  heroic  mind. 

Of  atom  force  and  chemic  stew 

Nor  Socrates  nor  Caesar  knew, 

But  the  old  ages  knew  a  plan  — 

The  lost  art  —  how  to  mold  a  man. 

VI. 

World,  wise  old  world, 

What  may  man  do  for  thee  ? 

Thou  that  art  greater  than  all  of  us, 

What  wilt  thou  do  to  me  ? 

This  glossy  curve  of  the  tall  grass-spear  — 

Can  I  make  its  lustrous  green  more  clear  ? 

This  tapering  shaft  of  oat,  that  knows 

To  grow  erect  as  the  great  pine  grows, 

And  to  sway  in  the  wind  as  well  as  he  — < 

Can  I  teach  it  to  nod  more  graciously  ? 

The  lark  on  the  mossy  rail  so  nigh, 


Field  Notes  17 

Wary,  but  pleased  if  I  keep  my  place  — 
Who  could  give  a  single  grace 
To  his  flute-note  sweet  and  high, 
Or  help  him  find  his  nest  hard  by  ? 
Can  I  add  to  the  poppy's  gold  one  bit? 
Can  I  deepen  the  sky,  or  soften  it  ? 

VII. 

./Eons  ago  a  rock  crashed  down 
From  a  mountain's  crown, 
Where  a  tempest's  tread 
Crumbled  it  from  its  hold. 
Ages  dawn  and  in  turn  grow  old  •. 
The  rock  lies  still  and  dead. 
Flames  come  and  floods  come, 
Sea  rolls  this  mountain  crumb 
To  a  pebble,  in  its  play ; 
Till  at  the  last  man  came  to  be, 
And  a  thousand  generations  passed  awayt 
Then  from  the  bed  of  a  brook  one  day 
A  boy  with  the  heart  of  a  king 
Fitted  the  stone  to  his  shepherd  sling, 
And   a  giant  fell,  and  a  royal  race  was 
free. 


i8  Field  Notes 

Not  out  <of  any  cloud  or  sky 
Will  thy  good  come  to  prayer  or  cry, 
Let  the  great  forces,  wise  of  old, 
Have  their  whole  way  with  thee, 
Crumble  thy  heart  from  its  hold, 
Drown  thy  life  in  the  sea. 
And  aeons  hence,  some  day, 
The  love  thou  gavest  a  child, 
The  dream  in  a  midnight  wild, 
The  word  thou  wouldst  not  say  — 
Or  in  a  whisper  no  one  dared  to  hear, 
Shall   gladden   the   earth   and   bring  the 
golden  year. 

VIII. 

Just  now  a  spark  of  fire 

Flashed  from  a  builder's  saw 

On  the  ribs  of  a  roof  a  mile  away. 

His  has  been  the  better  day, 

Gone  not  in  dreams,  nor  even  the  subtle 

desire 

Not  to  desire ; 
But  work  is  the  sober  law 


Field  Notes  ig 

He  knows  well  to  obey. 
It  is  a  poem  he  fits  and  fashions  well ; 
And  the  five  chambers  are  five  acts  of  it : 
Hope  in  one  shall  dwell, 
In  another  fear  will  sit ; 
In  the  chamber  on  the  east 
Shall  be  the  bridal  feast ; 
In  the  western  one 
The  dead  shall  lie  alone. 
So  the  cycles  of  life  shall  fill 
The  clean,  pine-scented  rooms  where  now 
he  works  his  will. 

IX. 

Might     one     be    healed    from    fevering 

thought, 

And  only  look,  each  night, 
On  some  plain  work  well  wrought , 
Or  if  a  man  as  right  and  true  might  be 
As  a  flower  or  tree  ! 
I  would  give  up  all  the  mind 
In  the  prim  city's  hoard  can  find  — 
House  with  its  scrap-art  bedight, 


20  Field  Notes 

Straitened  manners  of  the  street, 

Smooth-voiced  society  — 

If  so  the  swiftness  of  the  wind 

Might  pass  into  my  feet ; 

If  so  the  sweetness  of  the  wheat 

Into  my  soul  might  pass, 

And  the  clear  courage  of  the  grass ; 

If  the  lark  caroled  in  my  song ; 

If  one  tithe  of  the  faithfulness 

Of  the  bird-mother  with  her  brood 

Into  my  selfish  heart  might  press, 

And  make  me  also  instinct-good. 


Life  is  a  game  the  soul  can  play 
With  fewer  pieces  than  men  say. 
Only  to  grow  as  the  grass  grows, 
Prating  not  of  joys  or  woes  ; 
To  burn  as  the  steady  hearth-fire  burns  $ 
To  shine  as  the  star  can  shine, 
Or  only  as  the  mote  of  dust  that  turns 
Darkling  and  twinkling  in  the  beam  of 
light  divine ; 


Field  Notes  21 

And  for  my  wisdom  —  glad  to  know 
Where  the  sweetest  beech-nuts  grow, 
And  to  track  out  the  spicy  root, 
Or  peel  the  musky  core  of  the  wild-berry 

shoot ; 

And  how  the  russet  ground-bird  bold 
With  both  slim  feet  at  once  will  lightly 

rake  the  mold ; 
And  why  moon-shadows  from  the  swaying 

limb 

Here  are  sharp  and  there  are  dim ; 
And  how  the  ant  his  zigzag  way  can  hold 
Through  the  grass  that  is  a  grove  to  him. 

*T  were  good  to  live  one's  life  alone. 

So  to  share  life  with  many  a  one : 

To  keep  a  thought  seven  years,  and  then 

Welcome  it  coming  to  you 

On  the  way  from  another's  brain  and  pen, 

So  to  judge  if  it  be  true. 

Then  would  the  world  be  fair, 

Beautiful  as  is  the  past, 

Whose  beauty  we  can  see  at  last, 

Since  self  no  more  is  there. 


22  Field  Notes 

XI. 

I  will  be  glad  to  be  and  do, 

And  glad  of  all  good  men  that  live, 

For  they  are  woof  of  nature  too ; 

Glad  of  the  poets  every  one, 

Pure  Longfellow,  great  Emerson, 

And  all  that  Shakspeare's  world  can  give. 

When  the    road  is  dust,  and  the  grass 

dries, 

Then  will  I  gaze  on  the  deep  skies ; 
And  if  Dame  Nature  frown  in  cloud, 
Well,  mother  —  then  my  heart  shall  say  — 
You  cannot  so  drive  me  away ; 
I  will  still  exult  aloud, 
Companioned  of  the  good  hard  ground, 
Whereon  stout  hearts  of  every  clime, 
In  the  battles  of  all  time, 
Foothold  and  couch  have  found. 

XII. 

Joy  to  the  laughing  troop 
That  from  the  threshold  starts, 


Field  Notes  23 

Led  on  by  courage  and  immortal  hope, 

And  with  the  morning  in  their  hearts. 

They  to  the  disappointed  earth  shall  give 

The  lives  we  meant  to  live, 

Beautiful,  free,  and  strong ; 

The  light  we  almost  had 

Shall  make  them  glad ; 

The  words  we  waited  long 

Shall  run  in  music  from  their  voice  and 

song. 

Unto  our  world  hope's  daily  oracles 
From  their  lips  shall  be  brought ; 
And  in  our  lives  love's  hourly  miracles 
By  them  be  wrought. 
Their  merry  task  shall  be 
To  make  the  house  all  fine  and  sweet 
Its  new  inhabitants  to  greet, 
The  wondrous  dawning  century. 

XIII. 

And  now  the  close  of  this  fair  day  was 

come; 
The  bay  grew  duskier  on  its  purple  floor, 


24  Field  Notes 

And  the  long  curve  of  foam 
Drew  its  white  net  along  a  dimmer  shore. 
Through  the  fading  saffron  light, 
Through  the  deepening  shade  of  even, 
The  round  earth  rolled  into  the  summer 

night, 
And  watched  the  kindling  of  the  stars  in 

heaven. 


MORNING. 

ENTERED   once,  at   break  of 

day, 
A    chapel,    lichen  -  stained    and 

gray, 

Where  a  congregation  dozed  and  heard 
An  old  monk  read  from  a  written  Word. 
No  light  through  the  window-panes  could 

pass, 
For   shutters  were   closed   on    the    rich 

stained-glass  •, 

And  in  a  gloom  like  the  nether  night 
The  monk  read  on  by  a  taper's  light. 
Ghostly  with  shadows,  that  shrank  and 

grew 
As  the  dim  light  flared,  were  aisle  and 

pew; 

And  the  congregation  that  dozed  around, 
Listened  without  a  stir  or  sound  — 


26  Morning 

Save  one,  who  rose  with  wistful  face, 
And  shifted  a  shutter  from  its  place. 
Then  light  flashed  in  like  a  flashing  gem  — 
For  dawn  had  come  unknown  to  them  — 
And  a  slender  beam,  like  a  lance  of  gold, 
Shot  to  the  crimson  curtain-fold, 
Over  the  bended  head  of  him 
Who  pored  and  pored  by  the  taper  dim ; 
And  it  kindled  over  his  wrinkled  brow 
Such  words  —  "The  law  which  was  till 

now ; " 
And  I  wondered  that,  under  that  morning 

ray, 
When  night  and  shadow  were  scattered 

away, 

The  monk  should  bow  his  locks  of  white 
By  a  taper's  feebly  flickering  light  — 
Should  pore,  and  pore,  and  never  seem 
To  notice  the  golden  morning-beam. 


LIFE. 

ORENOON    and   afternoon   and 

night,  —  Forenoon, 
And    afternoon,    and    night, — 
Forenoon,  and  —  what! 
The  empty  song  repeats  itself.    No  more  ? 
Yea,  that  is  Life :  make  this  forenoon  sub- 
lime, 
This   afternoon    a  psalm,   this    night    a 

prayer, 

And  Time  is  conquered,  and  thy  crown  is 
won. 


FAITH. 

HE  tree-top,  high  above  'the  bar- 
ren field, 

Rising  beyond  the  night's  gray 
folds  of  mist, 

Rests  stirless  where  the  upper  air  is  sealed 
To  perfect  silence,  by  the  faint  moon 

kiss'd. 
But  the   low  branches,  drooping   to   the 

ground, 
Sway  to   and  fro,    as   sways    funereal 

plume, 

While  from  their  restless  depths  low  whis- 
pers sound  — 
"  We  fear,  we  fear  the  darkness  and  the 

gloom ; 

Dim   forms   beneath  us   pass   and   re- 
appear, 

And  mournful  tongues  are  menacing  us 
here." 


Faith  29 

Then  from  the  topmost  bough  falls  calm 

reply  — 
"  Hush,  hush !     I  see  the  coming  of  the 

morn; 

Swiftly  the  silent  Night  is  passing  by, 
And  in  her  bosom  rosy  Dawn  is  borne. 
'T  is  but  your  own  dim  shadows  that  ye 

see, 
JTis  but  your  own   low  moans    that 

trouble  ye." 

So   Life    stands,  with    a    twilight  world 

around ; 

Faith  turned  serenely  to  the  steadfast  sky, 
Still  answering  the  heart  that  sweeps  the 

ground, 

Sobbing  in  fear,  and  tossing  restlessly  — 
"  Hush,  hush  !    The  Dawn  breaks  o'er 

the  Eastern  sea, 

'T  is  but  thine  own  dim  shadow  trout> 
ling  thee." 


SOLITUDE. 

-X 

LL  alone  —  alone, 
Calm,  as  on  a  kingly  throne, 
Take  thy  place  in  the  crowded 
land, 

Self-centred  in  free  self-command. 
Let  thy  manhood  leave  behind 
The  narrow  ways  of  the  lesser  mind  : 
What  to  thee  are  its  little  cares, 
The  feeble  love  or  the  spite  it  bears  ? 
Let  the  noisy  crowd  go  by: 
In  thy  lonely  watch  on  high, 
Far  from  the  chattering  tongues  of  men, 
Sitting  above  their  call  or  ken, 
Free  from  links  of  manner  and  form 
Thou  shalt  learn  of  the  winged  storm  — 
God  shall  speak  to  thee  out  of  the  sky. 


RETROSPECT. 

OT  all  which  we  have  been 

Do  we  remain, 

Nor  on  the  dial-hearts  of  men 
Do  the  years  mark  themselves  in  vain  ; 
But  every   cloud   that   in   our   sky  hath 

passed, 

Some  gloom  or  glory  hath  upon  us  cast ; 
And   there   have  fallen   from   us,  as   we 

traveled, 

Many  a  burden  of  an  ancient  pain  — 
Many  a  tangled  chord  hath  been  unraveled, 

Never  to  bind  our  foolish  heart  again. 
Old  loves  have  left  us  lingeringly  and  slow, 
As  melts  away  the  distant  strain  of  low 
Sweet  music  —  waking  us  from  troubled 

dreams, 

Lulling  to  holier  ones  —  that  dies  afar 
On  the  deep  night,  as  if  by  silver  beams 


12  Retrospect 

Claspt  to  the  trembling  breast  of  some 

charmed  star. 

And  we  have  stood  and  watched,  all  wist- 
fully, 
While  fluttering  hopes  have  died  out  of 

our  lives, 

As  one  who  follows  with  a  straining  eye 
A  bird  that  far,  far-off  fades  in  the  sky, 
A   little  rocking  speck  —  now  lost ;  and 

still  he  strives 

A  moment  to  recover  it  —  in  vain ; 
Then  slowly  turns  back  to  his  work  again. 
But  loves  and  hopes  have  left  us  in  their 

place, 

Thank  God !  a  gentle  grace, 
A  patience,  a  belief  in  His  good  time, 
Worth  more  than  all  earth's  joys  to  which 
we  climb. 


CHRISTMAS   IN   CALIFORNIA. 

AN  this  be  Christmas  —  sweet  as 

May, 

With   drowsy  sun,  and   dreamy 
air, 

And  new  grass  pointing  out  the  way 
For  flowers  to  follow,  everywhere  ? 

Has  Time  grown  sleepy  at  his  post, 
And  let  the  exiled  Summer  back, 

Or  is  it  her  regretful  ghost, 
Or  witchcraft  of  the  almanac  ? 

While  wandering  breaths  of  mignonette 

In  at  the  open  window  come, 
I  send  my  thoughts  afar,  and  let 

Them   paint   your    Christmas   Day   at 
home. 


$4          Christmas  in  California 

Glitter  of  ice,  and  glint  of  frost, 
And  sparkles  in  the  crusted  snow ; 

And  hark  !  the  dancing  sleigh-bells,  tost 
The  faster  as  they  fainter  grow. 

The  creaking  footsteps  hurry  past ; 

The  quick  breath  dims  the  frosty  air ; 
And  down  the  crisp  road  slipping  fast 

Their  laughing  loads  the  cutters  bear. 

Penciled  against  the  cold  white  sky, 
Above  the  curling  eaves  of  snow, 

The  thin  blue  smoke  lifts  lingeringly, 
As  loth  to  leave  the  mirth  below. 

For  at  the  door  a  merry  din 

Is  heard,  with  stamp  of  feathery  feet, 
And  chattering  girls  come  storming  in, 

To  toast  them  at  the  roaring  grate. 

And  then  from  muff  and  pocket  peer, 
And  many  a  warm  and  scented  nook, 


Christmas  in  California          35 

Mysterious  little  bundles  queer, 

That,  rustling,  tempt  the  curious  look. 

Now  broad  upon  the  southern  walls 
The  mellowed  sun's  great  smile  appears, 

And  tips  the  rough-ringed  icicles 

With  sparks,  that  grow  to  glittering  tears. 

Then,  as  the  darkening  day  goes  by, 
The  wind  gets  gustier  without, 

And  leaden  streaks  are  on  the  sky, 
And  whirls  of  snow  are  all  about. 

Soon  firelight  shadows,  merry  crew, 
Along  the  darkling  walls  will  leap 

And  clap  their  hands,  as  if  they  knew 
A  thousand  things  too  good  to  keep. 

Sweet  eyes  with  home's  contentment  filled, 
As  in  the  smouldering  coals  they  peer, 

Haply  some  wondering  pictures  build 
Of  how  I  keep  my  Christmas  here. 


}6          Christmas  in  California 

Before  me,  on  the  wide,  warm  bay, 

A  million  azure  ripples  run  ; 
Round  me  the  sprouting  palm-shoots  lay 

Their  shining  lances  to  the  sun. 

With  glossy  leaves  that  poise  or  swing, 
The  callas  their  white  cups  unfold, 

And  faintest  chimes  of  odor  ring 

From  silver  bells  with  tongues  of  gold. 

A  languor  of  deliciousness 

Fills  all  the  sea-enchanted  clime ; 

And  in  the  blue  heavens  meet,  and  kiss, 
The  loitering  clouds  of  summer-time. 

This  fragrance  of  the  mountain  balm 
From  spicy  Lebanon  might  be  ; 

Beneath  such  sunshine's  amber  calm 
Slumbered  the  waves  of  Galilee. 

O  wondrous  gift,  in  goodness  given, 
Each  hour  anew  our  eyes  to  greet, 


Christmas  in  California          37 

An  earth  so  fair  —  so  close  to  Heaven, 
T  was  trodden  by  the  Master's  feet. 

And  we  —  what  bring  we  in  return  ? 

Only  these  broken  lives,  and  lift 
Them  up  to  meet  His  pitying  scorn, 

As  some  poor  child  its  foolish  gift : 

As  some  poor  child  on  Christmas  Day 
Its  broken  toy  in  love  might  bring ; 

You  could  not  break  its  heart  and  say 
You  cared  not  for  the  worthless  thing  ? 

Ah,  word  of  trust,  His  child  !     That  child 
Who  brought  to  earth  the  life  divine, 

Tells  me  the  Father's  pity  mild 

Scorns  not  even  such  a  gift  as  mine. 

I  am  His  creature,  and  His  air 

I  breathe,  where'er  my  feet  may  stand ; 
The  angels'  song  rings  everywhere, 

And  all  the  earth  is  Holy  Land. 


AMONG  THE    REDWOODS. 

FAREWELL  to  such  a  world  i  TOO 

long  I  press 

The  crowded  pavement  with  un- 
willing feet. 

Pity  makes  pride,  and  hate  breeds  hate- 
fulness, 
And  both  are  poisons.     In  the  forest, 

sweet 
The  shade,   the  peace  !    Immensity,  that 

seems 

To  drown  the  human  life  of  doubts  and 
dreams. 

Far  off  the  massive  portals  of  the  wood, 
Buttressed  with  shadow,  misty-blue,  se- 
rene, 

Waited  my  coming.     Speedily  I  stood 
Where   the  dun   wall    rose    roofed    in 
plumy  green. 


Among  tlf)e  Redwoods  39 

Dare  one  go  in  ?  —  Glance  backward  ! 
Dusk  as  night 

Each  column,  fringed  with  sprays  of  am- 
ber light. 

Let  me,  along  this  fallen  bole,  at  rest, 
Turn  to  the  cool,  dim  roof  my  glowing 

face. 
Delicious  dark  on  weary  eyelids  prest ! 

Enormous  solitude  of  silent  space, 
But  for  a  low  and  thunderous  ocean  sound, 
Too  far  to  hear,  felt  thrilling  through  the 
ground. 

No  stir  nor  call  the  sacred  hush  profanes ; 
Save  when  from  some  bare  tree-top,  far 

on  high, 
Fierce    disputations     of    the    clamorous 

cranes 

Fall  muffled,  as  from  out  the  upper  sky. 
So  still,  one  dreads  to  wake  the  dreaming 

air, 
Breaks  a  twig  softly,  moves  the  foot  with 

care. 


40  Among  the  Redwoods 

The  hollow  dome   is  green  with  empty 

shade, 
Struck  through  with  slanted  shafts  of 

afternoon  ; 
Aloft,  a  little  rift  of  blue  is  made, 

Where  slips  a  ghost  that  last  night  was 

the  moon  ; 
Beside    its   pearl    a  sea-cloud    stays   its 

wing, 
Beneath  a  tilted  hawk  is  balancing. 

The  heart  feels   not  in   every  time   and 

mood 
What  is  around  it.     Dull  as  any  stone 

I  lay ;  then,  like  a  darkening  dream,  the 

wood 

Grew  Karnak's  temple,  where  I  breathed 
alone 

In  the  awed  air  strange  incense,  and  up- 
rose 

Dim,  monstrous  columns  in  their  dread  re- 
pose. 


Among  the  Redwoods  41 

The  mind  not  always  sees ;  but  if  there 

shine 

A  bit  of  fern-lace  bending  over  moss, 
A  silky  glint  that  rides  a  spider-line, 
On  a  trefoil  two  shadow  -  spears  that 

cross, 
Three  grasses  that  toss  up  their  nodding 

heads, 

With  spring  and  curve  like  clustered  foun- 
tain-threads, — 

Suddenly,  through  side  windows   of  the 

eye, 
Deep  solitudes,  where  never  souls  have 

met; 
Vast  spaces,  forest  corridors  that  lie 

In  a  mysterious  world,  unpeopled  yet. 
Because  the  outward   eye  elsewhere  was 

caught, 
The  awfulness  and  wonder  come  unsought. 

If  death  be  but  resolving  back  again 
Into  the  world's  deep  soul,  this  is  a  kind 


42  Among  the  Redwoods 

Of    quiet,    happy   death,    untouched  by 

pain 
Or  sharp  reluctance.      For   I  feel  my 

mind 

Is  interfused  with  all  I  hear  and  see  ; 
As  much  a  part  of  All  as  cloud  or  tree. 

Listen !     A  deep   and  solemn  wind   on 

high; 

The  shafts  of  shining  dust  shift  to  and 
fro; 

The  columned  trees  sway  imperceptibly, 
And  creak  as  mighty  masts  when  trade- 
winds  blow. 

The  cloudy  sails  are  set ;   the  earth-ship 
swings 

Along  the  sea  of  space  to  grander  things. 


OPPORTUNITY. 

HIS  I  beheld,  or  dreamed  it  in  a 

dream :  — 
•  There  spread  a  cloud    of    dust 

along  a  plain  ; 

And  underneath  the  cloud,  or  in  it,  raged 
A  furious   battle,    and   men   yelled,   and 

swords 
Shocked    upon   swords   and  shields.     A 

prince's  banner 
Wavered,      then      staggered     backward, 

hemmed  by  foes. 

A  craven  hung  along  the  battle's  edge, 
And  thought,  "  Had  I  a  sword  of  keener 

steel  — 
That    blue    blade    that    the    king's  son 

bears,  —  but  this 
Blunt  thing  —  !  "  he  snapt   and  flung  it 

from  his  hand, 


44  Opportunity 

And  lowering  crept  away  and  left  the  field. 

Then  came  the  king's  son,  wounded,  sore 
bestead, 

And  weaponless,  and  saw  the  broken 
sword, 

Hilt-buried  in  the  dry  and  trodden  sand, 

And  ran  and  snatched  it,  and  with  battle- 
shout 

Lifted  afresh  he  hewed  his  enemy  down, 

And  saved  a  great  cause  that  heroic  day. 


HOME. 

|HERE    lies  a  little  city    in  the 

hills; 

White  are  its  roofs,  dim  is  each 
dwelling's  door, 
And  peace  with  perfect  rest  its  bosom  fills. 

There  the  pure  mist,  the  pity  of  the  sea, 
Comes  as  a  white,  soft  hand,  and  reaches 

o'er 
And  touches  its  still  face  most  tenderly. 

Unstirred   and  calm,   amid   our   shifting 

years, 
Lo !  where  it  lies,  far  from  the  clash  and 

roar, 
With  quiet  distance  blurred,   as  if  thro' 

tears. 


46  Home 

O  heart,  that  prayest  so  for  God  to  send 
Some  loving  messenger  to  go  before 
And  lead  the  way  to  where  thy  longings 
end, 

Be  sure,  be  very  sure,  that  soon  will  come 
His  kindest  angel,  and  through  that  still 

door 
Into  the  Infinite  love  will  lead  thee  home. 


REVERIE. 

HETHER  't  was  in  that  dome  of 

evening  sky, 

So  hollow  where  the  few  great 
stars  were  bright, 

Or  something  in  the  cricket's  lonely  cry, 
Or,  farther  off,  where  swelled  upon  the 

night 

The  surf-beat  of  the  symphony's  delight, 
Then  died  in  crumbling  cadences  away  — 
A  dream  of  Schubert's  soul,  too  sweet  to 
stay: 

Whether  from  these,  or  secret  spell  with- 
in,— 

It  seemed  an  empty  waste  of  endless 
sea, 

Where  the  waves  mourned  for  what  had 
never  been, 


48  Reverie 

Where  the  wind  sought  for  what  could 

never  be : 

Then  all  was  still,  in  vast  expectancy 
Of  powers   that  waited  but  some  mystic 

sign 
To  touch  the  dead  world  to  a  life  divine. 

Me,  too,  it  filled  —  that  breathless,  blind 

desire ; 

And  every  motion  of  the  oars  of  thought 
Thrilled  all  the  deep  in  flashes  —  sparks 

of  fire 

In  meshes  of  the  darkling  ripples  caught, 
Swiftly  rekindled,  and  then  quenched  to 

naught ; 
And  the   dark  held  me ;   wish  and  will 

were  none  : 

A  soul  unformed  and  void,  silent,  alone, 
And  brooded  over  by  the  Infinite  One. 


FIVE   LIVES. 

IVE  mites  of  monads  dwelt  in  a 

round  drop 

That  twinkled   on  a  leaf  by  a 
pool  in  the  sun. 

To  the  naked  eye  they  lived  invisible ; 
Specks,  for  a  world  of  whom  the  empty 

shell 
Of  a  mustard-seed  had  been  a  hollow  sky. 

One  was  a  meditative  monad,  called  a 

sage; 
And,  shrinking   all  his   mind  within,    he 

thought : 
"  Tradition,  handed  down  for  hours  and 

hours, 
Tells  that  our  globe,  this  quivering  crystal 

world, 
Is  slowly  dying.     What  if,  seconds  hence, 


jo  Five  Lives 

When  I   am   very  old,   yon   shimmering 

dome 
Come   drawing  down  and  down,   till   all 

things  end?" 
Then  with   a  weazen  smirk  he   proudly 

felt 

No  other  mote  of  God  had  ever  gained 
Such  giant  grasp  of  universal  truth. 

One  was  a  transcendental  monad  ;  thin 

And  long  and  slim  in  the  mind  ;  and  thus 
he  mused  : 

"  Oh,  vast,  unfathomable  monad-souls  ! 

Made  in  the  image "  —  a  hoarse  frog 
croaks  from  the  pool  — 

"  Hark  !  't  was  some  god,  voicing  his  glo- 
rious thought 

In  thunder  music  !  Yea,  we  hear  their 
voice, 

And  we  may  guess  their  minds  from  ours, 
their  work. 

Some  taste  they  have  like  ours,  some  ten- 
dency 


Five  Lives  57 

To  wriggle  about,  and  munch  a  trace  of 

scum." 

He  floated  up  on  a  pin-point  bubble  of  gas 
That  burst,  pricked  by  the  air,  and  he  was 

gone. 

One  was  a  barren-minded  monad,  called 
A  positivist ;  and  he  knew  positively : 
"There  is  no  world  beyond  this  certain 

drop. 
Prove  me   another  !      Let  the    dreamers 

dream 
Of  their  faint  gleams,   and   noises  from 

without, 

And  higher  and  lower ;  life  is  life  enough." 
Then  swaggering  half   a  hair's   breadth, 

hungrily 
He  seized  upon  an  atom  of  bug,  and  fed. 

One  was  a  tattered   monad,   called   a 

poet; 

And  with   shrill   voice   ecstatic  thus   he 
sang: 


52  Five  Lives 

"  Oh,  the  little  female  monad's  lips  ! 
Oh,  the  little  female  monad's  eyes ! 
Ah,  the  little,  little,  female,   female  mo- 
nad !  " 

The  last  was  a  strong-minded  monadess, 
Who  dashed  amid  the  infusoria, 
Danced  high  and  low,  and  wildly  spun 

and  dove 
Till  the  dizzy  others  held  their  breath  to 

see. 

But  while  they  led  their  wondrous  little 

lives 

Ionian  moments  had  gone  wheeling  by. 
The  burning  drop  had  shrunk  with  fearful 

speed ; 
A  glistening  film  —  't  was  gone ;  the  leaf 

was  dry. 

The  little  ghost  of  an  inaudible  squeak 
Was  lost  to  the  frog  that  goggled  from  his 

stone ; 


Five  Lives  53 

Who,  at  the  huge,  slow  tread  of  a  thought- 
ful ox 

Coming  to  drink,  stirred  sideways  fatly, 
plunged, 

Launched  backward  twice,  and  all  the 
pool  was  still. 


TRANQUILLITY. 

jjEARY,  and  marred  with  care  and 

pain 
And   bruising  days,  the   human 

brain 

Draws  wounded  inward,  —  it  might  be 
Some  delicate  creature  of  the  sea, 
That,  shuddering,  shrinks  its  lucent  dome, 
And  coils  its  azure  tendrils  home, 
And  folds  its  filmy  curtains  tight 
At  jarring  contact,  e'er  so  light ; 
But  let  it  float  away  all  free, 
And  feel  the  buoyant,  supple  sea 
Among  its  tinted  streamers  swell, 
Again  it  spreads  its  gauzy  wings, 
And,  waving  its  wan  fringes,  swings 
With  rhythmic  pulse  its  crystal  bell. 

So  let  the  mind,  with  care  o'erwrought, 
Float  down  the  tranquil  tides  of  thought : 


Tranquillity  55 

Calm  visions  of  unending  years 

Beyond  this  little  moment's  fears  ; 

Of  boundless  regions  far  from  where 

The  girdle  of  the  azure  air 

Binds  to  the  earth  the  prisoned  mind. 

Set  free  the  fancy,  till  it  find 

Beyond  our  world  a  vaster  place 

To  thrill  and  vibrate  out  through  space, — 

As  some  auroral  banner  streams 

Up  through  the  night  in  pulsing  gleams, 

And  floats  and  flashes  o'er  our  dreams ; 

There  let  the  whirling  planet  fall 

Down  —  down,  till  but  a  glimmering  ball,, 

A  misty  star :  and  dwindled  so, 

There  is  no  room  for  care,  or  woe, 

Or  wish,  apart  from  that  one  Will 

That  doth  the  worlds  with  music  fill. 


DARE  YOU? 

OUBTING  Thomas  and  loving 

John, 
Behind  the  others  walking  on  :  — 


•'  Tell  me  now,  John,  dare  you  be 
One  of  the  minority  ? 
To  be  lonely  in  your  thought, 
Never  visited  nor  sought, 
Shunned  with  secret  shrug,  to  go 
Thro'  the  world  esteemed  its  foe ; 
To  be  singled  out  and  hissed, 
Pointed  at  as  one  unblessed, 
Warned  against  in  whispers  faint, 
Lest  the  children  catch  a  taint ; 
To  bear  off  your  titles  well,  — 
Heretic  and  infidel  ? 
If  you  dare,  come  now  with  me, 
Fearless,  confident,  and  free." 


Dare  You?  57 

"  Thomas,  do  you  dare  to  be 
Of  the  great  majority  ? 
To  be  only,  as  the  rest, 
With  Heaven's  common  comforts  blessed ; 
To  accept,  in  humble  part, 
Truth  that  shines  on  every  heart ; 
Never  to  be  set  on  high, 
Where  the  envious  curses  fly ; 
Never  name  or  fame  to  find, 
Still  outstripped  in  soul  and  mind  ; 
To  be  hid,  unless  to  God, 
As  one  grass-blade  in  the  sod, 
Underfoot  with  millions  trod  ? 
If  you  dare,  come  with  us  be 
Lost  in  love's  great  unity» 


THE   INVISIBLE. 

F  there  is  naught  but  what  we  see, 
What  is  the  wide  world  worth  to 

me? 

But  is  there  naught  save  what  we  see  ? 
A  thousand  things  on  every  hand 
My  sense  is  numb  to  understand : 
I  know  we  eddy  round  the  sun ; 
When  has  it  dizzied  any  one  ? 
I  know  the  round  worlds  draw  from  far, 
Through  hollow  systems,  star  to  star  ; 
But  who  has  e'er  upon  a  strand 
Of  those  great  cables  laid  his  hand  ? 
What  reaches  up  from  room  to  room 
Of  chambered    earth,   through   glare  or 

gloom, 

Through  molten  flood  and  fiery  blast, 
And  binds  our  hurrying  feet  so  fast  ? 
'T  is  the  earth-mother's  love,  that  well 


The  Invisible  59 

Will  hold  the  motes  that  round  her  dwell : 
Through  granite  hills  you  feel  it  stir 
As  lightly  as  through  gossamer : 
Its  grasp  unseen  by  mortal  eyes, 
Its  grain  no  lens  can  analyze. 

If  there  is  naught  but  what  we  see, 
The  friend  I  loved  is  lost  to  me  : 
He  fell  asleep  ;  who  dares  to  say 
His  spirit  is  so  far  away  ? 
Who  knows  what  wings  are  round  about  ? 
These  thoughts — who  proves  but  from 

without 

They  still  are  whispered  ?  Who  can  think 
They  rise  from  morning's  food  and  drink  ! 
These  thoughts  that  stream  on  like  the 

sea, 

And  darkly  beat  incessantly 
The  feet  of  some  great  hope,  and  break, 
And  only  broken  glimmers  make, 
Nor  ever  climb  the  shore,  to  lie 
And  calmly  mirror  the  far  sky, 
And  image  forth  in  tranquil  deeps 
The  secret  that  its  silence  keeps. 


60  The  Invisible 

Because  he  never  comes,  and  stands 
And  stretches  out  to  me  both  hands, 
Because  he  never  leans  before 
The  gate,  when  I  set  wide  the  door 
At  morning,  nor  is  ever  found 
Just  at  my  side  when  I  turn  round, 
Half  thinking  I  shall  meet  his  eyes, 
From   watching    the    broad    moon-globe 

rise,  — 

For  all  this,  shall  I  homage  pay 
To  Death,  grow  cold  of  heart,  and  say : 
"  He  perished,  and  has  ceased  to  be  ; 
Another  comes,  but  never  he  "  ? 
Nay,  by  our  wondrous  being,  nay ! 
Although  his  face  I  never  see 
Through  all  the  infinite  To  Be, 
I  know  he  lives  and  cares  for  me. 


PEACE. 

IS  not  in  seeking, 
'T  is  not  in  endless  striving, 

Thy  quest  is  found : 
Be  still  and  listen  ; 
Be  still  and  drink  the  quiet 
Of  all  around. 

Not  for  thy  crying, 

Not  for  thy  loud  beseeching, 

Will  peace  draw  near  : 
Rest  with  palms  folded  ; 
Rest  with  thine  eyelids  fallen  — 

Lo  !  peace  is  here. 


THE   FOOL'S   PRAYER. 


HE  royal  feast  was   done ;    the 

King 

Sought  some  new  sport  to  ban- 
ish care, 

And  to  his  jester  cried  :  "  Sir  Fool, 
Kneel  now,  and  make  for  us  a  prayer  !  " 

The  jester  doffed  his  cap  and  bells, 
And  stood  the  mocking  court  before  ; 

They  could  not  see  the  bitter  smile 
Behind  the  painted  grin  he  wore. 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  bent  his  knee 
Upon  the  monarch's  silken  stool ; 

His  pleading  voice  arose  :  "  O  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

u  No  pity,  Lord,  could  change  the  heart 
From  red  with  wrong  to  white  as  wool  j 


The  Fool's  Prayer  63 

The  rod  must  heal  the  sin  :  but  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

"  'T  is  not  by  guilt  the  onward  sweep 
Of  truth  and  right,  O  Lord,  we  stay ; 

'T  is  by  our  follies  that  so  long 
We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away. 

"  These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire, 
Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end ; 

These  hard,  well-meaning  hands  we  thrust 
Among  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend. 

"  The  ill-timed  truth  we  might  have  kept  — 
Who   knows   how  sharp  it  pierced  and 
stung  ? 

The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say  — 
Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  rung  ? 

"  Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  ask, 
The  chastening  stripes   must    cleanse 
them  all ; 

But  for  our  blunders  —  oh,  in  shame 
Before  the  eyes  of  heaven  we  fall. 


64  The  Fool's  Prayer 

"  Earth  bears  no  balsam  for  mistakes  ; 

Men  crown  the  knave,  and  scourge  the 

tool 
That  did  his  will ;  but  Thou,  O  Lord, 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !  " 

The  room  was  hushed ;  in  silence  rose 
The  King,  and  sought  his  gardens  cool, 

And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
"  Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !  " 


THE   DESERTER. 

LINDEST     and     most     frantic 

prayer, 

Clutching  at  a  senseless  boon, 
His  that  begs,  in  mad  despair, 

Death  to  come ;  —  he  comes  so  soon  ! 

Like  a  reveler  that  strains 

Lip  and  throat  to  drink  it  up  — 

The  last  ruby  that  remains, 
One  red  droplet  in  the  cup. 

Like  a  child  that,  sullen,  mute, 

Sulking  spurns,  with  chin  on  breast, 

Of  the  Tree  of  Life  a  fruit, 

His  gift  of  whom  he  is  the  guest. 

Outcast  on  the  thither  shore, 

Open  scorn  to  him  shall  give 
Souls  that  heavier  burdens  bore  :  — 

"  See  the  wretch  that  dared  not  live  ! " 


THE  REFORMER. 


EFORE  the  monstrous  wrong  he 

sets  him  down  — 
One  man  against  a  stone-walled 
city  of  sin. 

For    centuries    those    walls    have    been 
a-building ; 

Smooth  porphyry,  they  slope  and  coldly 
glass 

The  flying  storm  and  wheeling  sun.     No 
chink, 

No  crevice  lets  the  thinnest  arrow  in. 

He  rights  alone,  and  from  the  cloudy  ram- 
parts 

A  thousand  evil  faces  gibe  and  jeer  him. 

Let  him   lie  down   and   die :  what  is  the 
right, 

And  where  is  justice,  in  a  world  like  this  ? 


The  Reformer  6j 

But  by  and  by,  earth  shakes  herself,  im- 
patient ; 

And  down,  in  one  great  roar  of  ruin,  crash 

Watch-tower  and  citadel  and  battlements. 

When  the  red  dust  has  cleared,  the  lonely 
soldier 

Stands  with  strange  thoughts  beneath  the 
friendly  stars. 


DESIRE  OF  SLEEP. 

T  is  not  death  I  mean, 

Nor  even  forgetfulness, 
But  healthful  human  sleep, 
Dreamless,  and  still,  and  deep, 
Where  I  would  hide  and  glean 
Some  heavenly  balm  to  bless. 

I  would  not  die  ;  I  long 

To  live,  to  see  my  days 
Bud  once  again,  and  bloom, 
And  make  amidst  them  room 
For  thoughts  like  birds  of  song, 
Out-winging  happy  ways. 

I  would  not  even  forget : 
Only,  a  little  while  — 
Just  now  —  I  cannot  bear 
Remembrance  with  despair ; 


Desire  of  Sleep  69 

The  years  are  coming  yet 
When  I  shall  look,  and  smile. 

Not  now  —  oh,  not  to-night ! 

Too  clear  on  midnight's  deep 
Come  voice  and  hand  and  touch  ; 
The  heart  aches  overmuch  — 

Hush  sounds  !  shut  out  the  light  1 
A  little  I  must  sleep. 


HER   EXPLANATION. 

O  you  have  wondered  at  me,  — - 

guessed  in  vain 

What  the  real   woman   is  you 
know  so  well  ? 
I   am   a  lost  illusion.     Some    strange 

spell 
Once  made  your  friend   there,   with  his 

fine  disdain 

Of  fact,  conceive  me  perfect.     He  would 
fain 

(But  could  not)  see  me  always,  as  be- 
fell 
His  dream  to  see  me,  plucking  aspho- 

del, 

In  saffron  robes,  on  some  celestial  plain. 
All  that  I  was  he  marred  and  flung  away 
In  quest  of  what  I  was  not,  could  not 

be,— 
Lilith,  or  Helen,  or  Antigone. 


Her  Explanation  j\ 

Still  he  may  search ;  but  I  have  had  my 

day, 

And  now  the  Past  is  all  the  part  for  me 
That  this  world's  empty  stage  has  left  to 
play. 


EVE'S   DAUGHTER. 

WAITED    in    the    little    sunny 

room  : 

The  cool  breeze  waved  the  win- 
dow-lace, at  play, 
The  white  rose  on  the  porch  was  all  in 

bloom, 

And  out  upon  the  bay 
I  watched  the  wheeling  sea-birds  go  and 
come. 

"  Such   an   old  friend,  —  she  would  not 

make  me  stay 
While  she  bound  up  her  hair."  I  turned, 

and  lo, 
Danae  in  her  shower  !  and  fit  to  slay 

All  a  man's  hoarded  prudence  at  a  blow : 
Gold  hair,  that  streamed  away 

As  round  some  nymph  a  sunlit  foun- 
tain's flow. 


Eve's  Daughter  73 

"  She  would  not  make  me  wait ! "  —  but 

well  I  know 
She  took  a  good  half-hour  to  loose  and 

lay 
Those  locks  in  dazzling  disarrangement 

sol 


BLINDFOLD. 

| HAT  do  we  know  of  the  world,  as 

we  grow  so  old  and  wise  ? 
Do  the  years,  that  still  the  heart- 
beats, quicken  the  drowsy  eyes  ? 
At  twenty  we  thought  we  knew  it,  —  the 

world  there,  at  our  feet ; 
We  thought  we  had  found  its  bitter,  we 

knew  we  had  found  its  sweet. 
Now  at  forty  and  fifty,  what  do  we  make 

of  the  world  ? 
There    in    her    sand    she   crouches,   the 

Sphinx  with  her  gray  wings  furled. 
Soul  of  a  man  I  know  not ;  who  knoweth, 

can  foretell, 
And  what  can  I  read  of  fate,  even  of  self 

I  have  learned  so  well  ? 
Heart   of   a  woman   I    know  not:    how 

should  I  hope  to  know, 


Blindfold  75 

I  that  am  foiled  by  a  flower,  or  the  stars 

of  the  silent  snow  ; 
I  that  have  never  guessed  the  mind  of  the 

bright-eyed  bird, 
Whom  even  the  dull  rocks  cheat,  and  the 

whirlwind's  awful  word  ? 
Let  me  loosen  the  fillet  of  clay  from  the 

shut  and  darkened  lid, 
For  life  is  a  blindfold  game,  and  the  Voice 

from  view  is  hid. 
I  face  him   as  best   I  can,  still   groping, 

here  and  there, 
For  the  hand  that  has  touched  me  lightly, 

the  lips  that  have  said,  "  Declare  !  " 
Well,   I   declare    him    my    friend,  —  the 

friend  of  the  whole  sad  race  ; 
And  oh,  that  the  game  were  over,  and  I 

might  see  his  face  ! 

But 'tis   much,  though  I  grope  in  blind- 
ness, the  Voice  that   is  hid  from 

view 
May  be  heard,  may  be  even  loved,  in  a 

dream  that  may  come  true. 


RECALL. 

OVE  me,  or  I  am  slain  !  "  I  cried, 

and  meant 

Bitterly  true  each  word.     Nights, 
morns,  slipped  by, 

Moons,  circling  suns,  yet  still  alive  am  I ; 
But  shame  to  me,  if  my  best  time  be  spent 

On  this  perverse,  blind  passion !     Are  we 

sent 

Upon  a  planet  just  to  mate  and  die, 
A  man  no  more  than  some  pale  butterfly 
That  yields  his  day  to  nature's  sole  intent  ? 

Or  is  my  life  but   Marguerite's  ox-eyed 

flower, 
That  I  should  stand  and  pluck  and  fling 

away, 
One  after  one,  the  petal  of  each  hour, 


Recall  77 

Like  a  love-dreamy  girl,  and  only  say, 
"  Loves  me,"  and    "  loves  me  not,"  and 

"  loves  me  "  ?     Nay  ! 
Let  the  man's  mind  awake  to  manhood's 

power. 


STRANGE. 

E  died  at  night.     Next  day  they 

came 

To  weep  and  praise  him  :  sudden 
fame 

These  suddenly  warm  comrades  gave. 
They  called   him   pure,  they  called   him 

brave ; 

One  praised  his  heart,  and  one  his  brain  ; 
All  said,  You  'd  seek  his  like  in  vain,  — 
Gentle,  and  strong,  and  good  :  none  saw 
In  all  his  character  a  flaw. 

At  noon  he  wakened  from  his  trance, 
Mended,  was  well !  They  looked  askance  ; 
Took  his  hand  coldly  ;  loved  him  not, 
Though  they  had  wept  him  ;  quite  forgot 
His  virtues  ;  lent  an  easy  ear 
To  slanderous  tongues  ;  professed  a  fear 


Strange  79 

He  was  not  what  he  seemed  to  be ; 
Thanked  God  they  were  not  such  as  he ; 
Gave  to  his  hunger  stones  for  bread  ; 
And  made  nim,  living,  wish  him  dead. 


WIEGENLIED. 

E  still  and  sleep,  my  soul ! 

Now  gentle-footed  Night 
In  softly  shadowed  stole, 
Holds  all  the  day  from  sight. 


Why  shouldst  thou  lie  and  stare 
Against  the  dark,  and  toss, 

And  live  again  thy  care, 
Thine  agony  and  loss  ? 

'T  was  given  thee  to  live, 
And  thou  hast  lived  it  all ; 

Let  that  suffice,  nor  give 

One  thought  what  may  befall. 

Thou  hast  no  need  to  wake, 
Thou  art  no  sentinel ; 

Love  all  the  care  will  take, 
And  Wisdom  watcheth  well. 


Wiegenlied  81 

Weep  not,  think  not,  but  rest ! 

The  stars  in  silence  roll ; 
On  the  world's  mother-breast, 

Be  still  and  sleep,  my  soul ! 


AN   ANCIENT   ERROR. 

He  that  has,  and  a  little  tiny  wit,  — 
With  a  heigh,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

LEAR. 

|HE  "  sobbing  wind,"  the  "weep- 
ing rain,"  — 
'T  is  time  to  give  the  lie 
To  these  old  superstitions  twain, 
That  poets  sing  and  sigh. 

Taste  the  sweet  drops,  —  no  tang  of  brine  ; 

Feel  them,  —  they  do  not  burn  ; 
The  daisy-buds,  whereon  they  shine, 

Laugh,  and  to  blossoms  turn. 

There  is  no  natural  grief  or  sin  ; 

T  is  we  have  flung  the  pall, 
And  brought  the  sound  of  sorrow  in. 

Pan  is  not  dead  at  all. 


An  Ancient  Error  83 

The  merry  Pan !  his  blithesome  look 
Twinkles  through  sun  and  rain  ; 

By  ivied  rock  and  rippled  brook 
He  pipes  his  jocund  strain. 

If  winds  have  wailed  and  skies  wept  tears, 

To  poet's  vision  dim, 
T  was  that  his  own  sobs  filled  his  ears, 

His  weeping  blinded  him. 

'T  is  laughing  breeze  and  singing  shower, 

As  ever  heart  could  need  ; 
And  who  with  "  heigh  "  and  "  ho  "  must 
lower 

Hath  "  tiny  wit "  indeed. 


TO  A  FACE  AT  A  CONCERT. 

jjHEN  the  low  music  makes  a  dusk 

of  sound 

About  us,  and  the  viol  or  far-off 
horn 

Swells  out  above  it  like  a  wind  forlorn, 
That  wanders  seeking  something  never 

found, 
What  phantom  in  your  brain,   on   what 

dim  ground, 
Traces  its  shadowy  lines  ?    What  vision, 

born 

Of  unfulfillment,   fades  in   mere    self- 
scorn, 
Or  grows,  from  that  still  twilight  stealing 

round  ? 

When  the  lids  droop  and  the  hands  lie 
unstrung, 


To  a  Face  at  a  Concert        85 

Dare  one  divine  your  dream,  while  the 

chords  weave 
Their  cloudy  woof  from  key  to  key,  and 

die,- 
Is  it  one  fate  that,  since  the  world  was 

young, 
Has  followed  man,  and  makes  him  half 

believe 
The  voice  of  instruments  a  human  cry  ? 


TWO  VIEWS  OF  IT. 

WORLD,     O    glorious    world, 

good-by !  " 

Time    but    to    think   it  —  one 
wild  cry 

Unuttered,  a  heart-wrung  farewell 
To  sky  and  wood  and  flashing  stream, 
All  gathered  in  a  last  swift  gleam, 
As  the  crag  crumbled,  and  he  fell. 

But  lo  !  the  thing  was  wonderful ! 
After  the  echoing  crash,  a  lull : 
The  great  fir  on  the  slope  below 
Had  spread  its  mighty  mother-arm, 
And  caught  him,  springing  like  a  bow 
Of  steel,  and  lowered  him  safe  from  harm. 

'T  was  but  an  instant's  dark  and  daze  : 
Then,  as  he  felt  each  limb  was  sound, 


Two  Views  of  it  87 

And  slowly  from  the  swooning  haze 
The  dizzy  trees  stood  still  that  whirled, 
And  the  familiar  sky  and  ground, 
There  grew  with  them  across  his  brain 
A  dull  regret :  "So,  world,  dark  world0 
You  are  come  back  again  1 " 


THE  LINKS   OF   CHANCE. 


OLDING  apoise  in  air 
My  twice-dipped  pen,  — for  some 

tense  thread  of  thought 
Had  snapped,  —  mine  ears  were   half 

aware 
Of  passing  wheels ;   eyes  saw,  but  mind 

saw  not, 
My  sun-shot  linden.     Suddenly,   as   I 

stare, 

Two  shifting  visions  grow  and  fade  un- 
sought :  — 

Noon-blaze  :  the  broken  shade 
Of    ruins    strown.      Two    Tartar    lovers 

sit: 

She  gazing  on  the  ground,  face  turned, 
afraid ; 


The  Links  of  Chance  89 

And  he,  at  her.     Silence  is  all  his  wit. 
She  stoops,  picks  up  a  pebble  of  green 

jade 
To  toss  :  they  watch  its  flight,  unheeding 

it. 

Ages  have  rolled  away ; 
And  round  the  stone,  by  chance,  if  chance 

there  be, 

Sparse  soil  has  caught ;  a  seed,  wind- 
lodged  one  day, 
Grown  grass ;   shrubs  sprung ;  at  last  a 

tufted  tree : 
Lo  !  over  its  snake  root  yon  conquering 

Bey 

Trips  backward,  righting — and  half  Asia 
free! 


"WORDS,   WORDS,   WORDS." 

(TO   ONE   WHO    FLOUTED   THEM   AS   VAIN.) 
I. 

M  I  not  weary  of  them  as  your 

heart 

Or    ever    Hamlet's   was?  —  the 
empty  ones, 
Mere  breath  of  passing  air,  mere  hollow 

tones 
That  idle  winds  to  broken  reeds  impart. 

Have  they  not  cursed  my  life  ?  —  sounds 

I  mistook 

For  sacred  verities,  —  love,  faith,  delight, 
And   the  sweet  tales  that  women  tell  at 

night, 
When  darkness  hides  the  falsehood  of  the 

look. 


"  Words,  Words,  Words"       91 

I  was  the  one  of  all  Ulysses'  crew 
(What  time  he  stopped   their  ears)   that 

leaped  and  fled 
Unto  the  sirens,  for  the  honey-dew 

Of  their  dear  songs.     The  poets  me  have 

fed 
With  the  same  poisoned  fruit.     And  even 

you,— 
Did  you  not  pluck  them  for  me  in  days 

dead? 

u. 

Nay,  they  do  bear  a  blessing  and  a  pow- 
er,— 

Great  words  and  true,  that  bridge  from 
soul  to  soul 

The  awful  cloud-depths  that  betwixt  us 
roll. 

I  will  not  have  them  so  blasphemed.  This 
hour, 


92        "  Wvrds,  Words,  Words  " 

This  little  hour  of  life,  this  lean  to-day,  — 

What  were  it  worth  but  for  those  mighty 
dreams 

That  sweep  from  down  the  past  on  sound- 
ing streams 

Of  such  high-thoughted  words  as  poets 
say? 

What,  but  for  Shakespeare's  and  for  Ho- 
mer's lay, 

And  bards  whose  sacred  names  all  lips 
repeat  ? 

Words,  —  only  words  ;  yet,  save  for  tongue 
and  pen 

Of  those  great  givers  of  them  unto  men, 
And  burdens  they  still  bear  of  grave  or 

sweet, 
This  world  were  but  for  beasts,  a  darkling 

den. 


THE  THRUSH. 

|HE  thrush  sings  high  on  the  top- 
most bough,  — 

Low,  louder,  low  again  ;  and  now 
He  has  changed  his  tree,  —  you  know  not 

how, 
For  you  saw  no  flitting  wing. 

All  the  notes  of  the  forest-throng, 
Flute,  reed,  and  string,  are  in  his  song ; 
Never  a  fear  knows  he,  nor  wrong, 
Nor  a  doubt  of  anything. 

Small  room  for  care  in  that  soft  breast ; 
All  weather  that  comes  is  to  him  the  best, 
While  he  sees  his  mate  close  on  her  nest, 
And  the  woods  are  full  of  spring. 


94  The  Thrush 

He  has  lost  his  last  year's  love,  I  know,  — 
He,  too,  —  but 't  is  little  he  keeps  of  woe ; 
For  a  bird  forgets  in  a  year,  and  so 
No  wonder  the  thrush  can  sing. 


CARPE   DIEM. 

OW  the  dull  thought  smites  me 

dumb, 

"  It  will   come !  "  and  "  It  will 
come ! " 

But  to-day  I  am  not  dead ; 
Life  in  hand  and  foot  and  head 
Leads  me  on  its  wondrous  ways. 
'T  is  in  such  poor,  common  days, 
Made  of  morning,  noon,  and  night, 
Golden  truth  has  leaped  to  light, 
Potent  messages  have  sped, 
Torches  flashed  with  running  rays, 
World-runes  started  on  their  flight. 

Let  it  come,  when  come  it  must ; 
But  To-Day  from  out  the  dust 
Blooms  and  brightens  like  a  flower, 
Fair  with  love,  and  faith,  and  power. 
Pluck  it  with  unclouded  will, 
From  the  great  tree  Igdrasil. 


SERVICE. 

RET  not  that  the  day  is  gone, 
And  thy  task  is  still  undone. 
'T  was  not  thine,  it  seems,  at  ail : 
Near  to  thee  it  chanced  to  fall, 
Close  enough  to  stir  thy  brain, 
And  to  vex  thy  heart  in  vain. 
Somewhere,  in  a  nook  forlorn, 
Yesterday  a  babe  was  born : 
He  shall  do  thy  waiting  task ; 
All  thy  questions  he  shall  ask, 
And  the  answers  will  be  given, 
Whispered  lightly  out  of  heaven. 
His  shall  be  no  stumbling  feet, 
Falling  where  they  should  be  fleet ; 
He  shall  hold  no  broken  clue ; 
Friends  shall  unto  him  be  true ; 
Men  shall  love  him  ;  falsehood's  aim 
Shall  not  shatter  his  good  name. 


Service  97 

Day  shall  nerve  his  arm  with  light, 
Slumber  soothe  him  all  the  night ; 
Summer's  peace  and  winter's  storm 
Help  him  all  his  will  perform. 
'T  is  enough  of  joy  for  thee 
His  high  service  to  foresee. 


THE  BOOK  OF  HOURS. 

|S  one  who  reads  a  tale  writ  in  a 

tongue 

He  only  partly  knows,  —  runs 
over  it 

And  follows  but  the  story,  losing  wit 
And   charm,  and   half   the    subtle    links 

among 
The  haps  and  harms  that  the  book's  folk 

beset,  — 
So  do  we  with  our  life.     Night  comes, 

and  morn : 
I  know  that  one  has  died  and  one  is 

born ; 

That  this  by  love  and  that  by  hate  is  met. 
But  all  the  grace  and  glory  of  it  fail 
To  touch  me,  and  the  meanings  they 
enfold. 


The  Book  of  Hours  99 

The  Spirit  of  the  World  hath  told  the  tale, 
And  tells  it :  and  't  is  very  wise  and  old. 

But  o'er  the  page  there  is  a  mist  and  veil : 
I  do  not  know  the  tongue  in  which  't  is 
told. 


THE  WONDERFUL  THOUGHT. 

T  comes  upon  me  in  the  woods, 

Of  all  the  days,  this  day  in  May  : 
When  wind  and  rain  can  never 
think 
Whose  turn  't  is  now  to  have  its  way. 

It  finds  me  as  I  lie  along, 

Blinking  up  through  the  swaying  trees, 
Half  wondering  if  a  man  who  reads 

"  Blue  sky  "  in  books  that  color  sees,  — 

So  fathomless  and  pure :  as  if 
All  loveliest  azure  things  have  gone 

To  heaven   that  way,  —  the  flowers,  the 

sea,— 
And  left  their  color  there  alone. 

Hark  !  leaning  on  each  other's  arms, 
The  pines  are  whispering  in  the  breeze, 


The  Wonderful  Thought        101 

Whispering,  —  then  hushing,  half  in  awe 
Their  legends  of  primeval  seas. 

The  wild  things  of  the  wood  come  out, 
And  stir  or  hide,  as  wild  things  will, 

Like  thoughts  that  may  not  be  pursued, 
But  come  if  one  is  calm  and  still. 

Deep  hemlocks  down  the  gorge  shut  in 
Their  caves  with  hollow  shadow  filled, 

Where  little  feathered  anchorites 
Behind  a  sunlit  lattice  build. 

And    glimmering    through    that  lace    of 
boughs, 

Dancing,  while  they  hang  darker  still, 
Along  the  restful  river  shines 

The  restless  light's  incessant  thrill : 

As  in  some  sober,  silent  soul, 

Whose  life  appears  a  tranquil  stream, 
Through  some  unguarded  rift  you  catch 

The  wildest  wishes,  all  agleam. 


/02        The  Wonderful  Thought 

But  to  my  thought  —  so  wonderful ! 

I  know  if  once  'twere  told,  all  men 
Would  feel  it  warm  at  heart,  and  life 

Be  more  than  it  had  ever  been. 

T  would   make    these    flowerless    woods 
laugh  out 

With  every  garden-color  bright, 
Where  only,  now,  the  dogwood  hangs 

Its  scattered  cloud  of  ghostly  white. 

Those  birds  would  hold  no  more  aloof  :  — 
How  know  they  I  am  here,  so  well  ? 

Tis  yon  woodpecker's  warning  note  ; 
He  is  their  seer  and  sentinel. 

They  use  him,  but  his  faithfulness 
Perchance  in  human  fashion  pay,  — 

Laugh  in  their  feathers  at  his  voice, 
And  ridicule  his  stumbling  way. 

That  far-off  flute-note  —  hours  in  vain 
I  Ve  followed  it,  so  shy  and  fleet ; 


The  Wonderful  Thought        103 

But  if  I  found  him,  well  I  know 

His  song  would  seem  not  half  so  sweet. 

The  swift,  soft  creatures,  —  how  I  wish 
They  'd  trust  me,  and  come  perch  upon 

My  shoulders  !     Do  they  guess  that  then 
Their  charm  would  be  forever  gone  ? 

But  still  I  prate  of  sight  and  sound  ; 

Ah,  well,  't  is  always  so  in  rhyme ; 
The  idle  fancies  find  a  voice, 

The  wise  thought  waits  —  another  time. 


NATURE   AND   HER   CHILD. 

]S   some  poor  child  whose  soul  is 

windowless, 

Having  not  hearing,  speech,  nor 
sight,  sits  lone 

In  her  dark,  silent  life,  till  cometh  one 
With  a  most  patient  heart,  who  tries  to 
guess 

Some  hidden  way  to  help  her  helplessness, 
And,  yearning  for  that  spirit  shut  in  stone, 
A  crystal  that  has  never  seen  the  sun, 
Smooths  now  the  hair,  and  now  the  hand 
will  press, 

Or  gives   a  key   to  touch,   then    letters 

raised, 

Its  symbol ;  then  an  apple,  or  a  ring, 
And   again   letters,  —  so,    all    blind    and 

dumb, 


Nature  and  ber  Child         105 

We  wait;  the  kindly  smiles  of   summer 

come, 
And   soft  winds   touch   our   cheek,    and 

thrushes  sing ; 
The  world-heart  yearns,  but  we  stand  dull 

and  dazed. 


THE   FOSTER-MOTHER. 

S  some  poor  Indian  woman 
A  captive  child  receives, 
And  warms  it  in  her  bosom, 
And  o'er  its  weeping  grieves ; 

And  comforts  it  with  kisses, 
And  strives  to  understand 

Its  eager,  lonely  babble, 
Fondling  the  little  hand,  — 

So  Earth,  our  foster-mother, 
Yearns  for  us,  with  her  great 

Wild  heart,  and  croons  in  murmurs 
Low,  inarticulate. 

She  knows  we  are  white  captives, 

Her  dusky  race  above, 
But  the  deep,  childless  bosom 

Throbs  with  its  brooding  love. 


TRUTH   AT  LAST. 

OES  a  man  ever  give  up  hope,  I 

wonder,  — 
Face  the  grim  fact,  seeing  it  clear 

as  day  ? 
When  Bennen  saw  the  snow   slip,  heard 

its  thunder 
Low,  louder,  roaring  round  him,  felt  the 

speed 
Grow   swifter   as   the    avalanche    hurled 

downward, 
Did  he  for  just  one   heart-throb  —  did  he 

indeed 
Know  with  all   certainty,  as  they  swept 

onward, 
There    was    the    end,    where     the    crag 

dropped  away  ? 
Or  did  he  think,  even  till  they  plunged  and 

fell, 


io8  Truth  at  Last 

Some  miracle  would  stop  them  ?     Nay, 

they  tell 
That  he  turned  round,  face  forward,  calm 

and  pale. 
Stretching  his  arms  out  toward  his  native 

vale 

As  if  in  mute,  unspeakable  farewell, 
And  so  went  down.  —  'T  is  something,  if  at 

last, 

Though  only  for  a  flash,  a  man  may  see 
Clear-eyed  the  future  as  he  sees  the  past, 
From  doubt,   or  fear,  or  hope's  illusion 

free. 


"QUEM  METUI   MORITURA?" 

IV.  604. 


HAT  need  have   I  to  fear  —  so 

soon  to  die  ? 

Let  me  work  on,  not  watch  and 
wait  in  dread  : 
What  will   it   matter,  when   that  I  am 

dead, 
That  they  bore  hate  or  love  who  near  me 

lie? 

'T  is  but  a  lifetime,  and  the  end  is  nigh 
At  best  or  worst.     Let  me  lift  up  my 

head 

And  firmly,  as  with  inner  courage,  tread 
Mine  own  appointed  way,  on  mandates 

high. 

Pain  could  but  bring,  from  all  its  evil  store, 
The  close  of  pain  :  hate's  venom  could 
but  kill  ; 


/  /o      "  Quern  Metui  Moritura  ?  " 

Repulse,  defeat,  desertion,  could  no  more. 
Let  me  have  lived  my  life,  not  cowered 

until 
The  unhindered  and  unhastened  hour  was 

here. 
So  soon  —  what  is  there  in  the  world  to 

fear? 


A  MORNING  THOUGHT. 

HAT  if  some  morning,  when  the 

stars  were  paling, 
And   the   dawn  whitened,  and 
the  East  was  clear, 
Strange  peace  and  rest  fell  on  me  from 

the  presence 
Of  a  benignant  Spirit  standing  near : 

And  I  should  tell  him,  as  he  stood  beside 

me, 
"  This   is   our    Earth  —  most   friendly 

Earth,  and  fair ; 
Daily  its  sea  and  shore  through  sun  and 

shadow 
Faithful  it  turns,  robed  in  its  azure  air  : 

"There   is  blest  living  here,  loving  and 

serving, 

And  quest  of  truth,  and  serene  friend- 
ships dear ; 


112          A  Mvrning  Thought 

But    stay  not,    Spirit!      Earth    has    one 

destroyer  — 

His   name   is  Death :  flee,  lest  he  find 
thee  here ! " 

And  what  if  then,  while  the  still  morning 

brightened, 
And  freshened  in  the  elm  the  Summer's 

breath, 
Should  gravely  smile   on  me  the  gentle 

angel 

And  take  my  hand  and  say,  "  My  name 
is  Death." 


.A2  U 


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